8am, Simon's alarm goes off and he rouses, yawning and stretching only to find your side of the bed empty. Of course. It's Sunday, you always pamper on Sundays.

In fact, you'd been up for two hours already. Had breakfast, brushed your teeth, done a face mask, a hair mask, showered, shaved, moisturised, the whole works.

As he sits up in bed and squints at the light beaming from your vanity mirror, he fails to fight back a smirk at the sight of you; your hair wrapped in a towel, sitting in your underwear while your moisturiser is still tacky, lips coated in glossy peel-off lip stain and whitening strips on your teeth.

"Who are you and what have you done with my wife?" he snorts, laying back down on his side to watch you begin styling your hair.